


The Demons Within

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-16
Updated: 2000-01-16
Packaged: 2018-11-10 14:56:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Frank Zuko's reaction to the events in 'Juliet is Bleeding'





	The Demons Within

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    I saw 'Juliet is Bleeding' again recently, and started wondering how
    Irene's death and the knowledge that he had been the cause of it
    would affect Frank.  This was the result.
    
    (I don't know if Frank Zuko has a wife and kids or not, but I gave him
    some for this story.)
    
    PG--depression, dark thoughts, implied violence
    
    The Demons Within
    by Casey Reyner	(casey_ray@hotmail.com)
    
    Looking down at the carpet, he saw not the appealing color or the welcome
    softness, only the ugly reminder that had haunted him, 
    taunted him, for the last three years, never letting him forget what
    he had done, what his short-fuse temper and impulsive actions had caused.
    He braced his back against the wall, which bore a similar reminder, and
    slid down until he was sitting on the blood stain.  Everyone, his wife,
    Charlie, everybody, had told him to get the stairs cleaned, or even to
    replace the carpet and wallpaper if necessary, but he adamantly refused.
    He wanted to see the stain every time he walked by, for two reasons.
    One, to serve as a constant reminder of what he had done--he never wanted
    to let himself forget because if he did he thought it would somehow be
    disrespectful of his sister.  And two, to serve as a sort of memorial
    to Irene, like the flowers and crosses that are placed roadside at the
    site of a fatal car accident.  He had hung a large portrait of Irene,
    his favorite picture of her, over the spot.  His wife thought it was
    morbid and made him take it down, but when she left he had put it back
    up.  
    
    The house was so empty, with nobody around.  No kids running around,
    knocking things over.  No women yelling at the children to stop making
    a mess.  No men yelling at them all to shut up, they were trying to work.
    At one point he would have embraced the silence, thankful for the peace
    and calm.  Now, though, it was an eery absence of sound, reminding him
    of the cold silence of a tomb.  Everything, it seemed, reminded him of
    death. Considering his situation, most understood his peoccupaton with
    death, and at first everyone had stood by him, trying to be supportive.
    But as his depression lingered, deepend even, the people in his life
    began to drift away.  He had basically ceased doing any business and
    his people had found work elsewhere, some with his rivals.  But he didn't
    care.  Then his wife had left, with the kids, saying that being around
    him was bad for them.  Charlie was the last to leave.  He had moved to
    Florida just a few months before.
    
    Frank fingered the object in his lap and thought he was actually grateful
    that everyone had had the good sense to leave him.  He didn't want to
    hurt anyone else; destroying one life was enough.  Well, two really.
    When he shot Irene he effectively destroyed his own life as well. He
    was just happy no one had been foolish enough to try to 'stand by him
    in his time of need'.  He knew he'd just drag down anyone who was nearby.
    
    He leaned his head back against the wall and reflected on the last several
    years of his life.  He couldn't believe it had been so long; the memories--of
    watching Irene fall, that night in the hospital, her funeral-- were still
    fresh, like it had been a matter of days, not years.  After the proper
    mourning period, longer actually, he had tried to go back to his routine.
    But he found he couldn't concentrate, he was tired because he wasn't
    sleeping, and he frankly didn't give a damn about the business, his father's
    business.  He stopped calling meetings to check on things, stopped listening
    to the reports on what his rivals were doing, stopped looking at the
    books of his various 'legitimate' businesses.  He began taking sleeping
    pills, and started sleeping much of the day away.  Because he was relying
    on drugs to put him to sleep, he often woke at strange hours and just
    kind of drifted around the house, not having anything to do but unable
    to sleep because when the pills wore off he was more awake than ever.
    And when he was awake, the pain was overwhelming.  So he started drinking,
    to numb the pain.  It wasn't unusual for him to drink until he passed
    out, or until the bottle was empty.  
    
    He hadn't done much of anything the past year.  He rarely ventured out
    of the house. He had no idea what had become of his businesses.  He couldn't
    remember the last time he had paid any bills, and he hadn't gone grocery
    shopping in ages.  And yet, his house had electricity and heat, and groceries
    miraculously appeared in his fridge and pantry every week.  In some of
    his clearer moments, Frank suspected Charlie had arranged for everything
    before he left, and  Frank was touched, somewhere in the vicinity of
    where his heart had once been, that someone cared enough about him to
    go to all that trouble. 
    
    He looked at his watch.  Almost time.  He brushed his hand almost caressingly
    across the stain and wondered what it was like when Irene had felt the
    life draining out of her.  Had she known she was dying?  Was she scared?
    Did she hate him?  He had apologized to her hundreds of times, but he
    never felt that she had forgiven him.  But maybe it wasn't her; maybe
    it was he who couldn't forgive himself.  The guilt had eaten him alive,
    slowly killing him from the inside out.  But soon the pain would stop
    and Irene's death would be avenged. 
    
    Frank looked at his watch again, watched as the second hand swept closer
    and closer to the number 12.  He watched the minute hand tick over until
    the watch read 11:21 pm, the exact time Irene was declared dead exactly
    three years ago.  He lifted the gun from his lap--the same gun that had
    killed Irene--and turned it on himself.
    
    


End file.
